


Lines That Were Crossed

by Swanhilde (Dreamicide)



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28923273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamicide/pseuds/Swanhilde
Summary: Mytho turned out to be a verbal sleeper. Fakir turned out to have a distasteful imagination.
Relationships: Fakir/Mytho (Princess Tutu)
Kudos: 16





	Lines That Were Crossed

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a ten year old fic from 2011 that I wrote on an anonymous account because I didn’t want to admit I liked this ship lol. I’ve grown since then. But I still like this fic itself, so I’m de-annoning and posting anew. :)

At night Fakir was done saying cruel words and pushing with threats. Wash up, change, tell the prince to sleep, and he would follow after. He used to read a chapter of The Prince and the Raven aloud before bed, but those days were done.

The days of nightmares weren't, however. They were always the same, dark looming behemoth, sharp claws, chest stinging, voice radiating on a scream -

Fakir woke with a start, and snapped his jaw shut. For several moments he held his frozen spot while waiting for his breath to even out before moving. Pushing himself into an upright position, he mentally cursed, noting that his nightshirt was already drenched in sweat and his heart was still beating faster than a hummingbird's wings.

Maybe he had already resolved to never let the story come forth and subject him to such a fate, but like hell his own subconscious would let him escape from it. If not once in reality, then countless times in his dreams would he die and feel the phantom pain. A fair enough exchange, Fakir once thought to himself, but nonetheless straining.

He leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes. It was too dark to make out the hands of the clock on the wall, but he couldn't hear any birds singing. Maybe it was around one or two in the morning, enough for him to roll over and go back to sleep.

Not that he could, anymore. Not when Mytho had already started dreaming hours ago and began moving around in his own twin bed. Fakir was, surprisingly, a light sleeper and needed all but complete silence just to rest. Something the prince never provided for once he was asleep.

Also surprisingly, Mytho was a verbal sleeper, in comparison to the quiet and feeble boy Fakir had known for as long as he remembered. He never spoke, no. Just wordless noises. Babble. Annoying sounds that could keep his roommate up to the crack of dawn.

Again, Fakir silently cursed to himself. It looked like just another occasion in which he'd have to wait it out, occupying his otherwise groggy mind with vows of protection, keeping away that spiteful girl, and what even the hell was that homework assignment he had yet to complete.

It just had to be the night that Mytho was exceptionally active in his slumber, though. Of course it was.

Peering carefully over to the other bed, he watched the prince. Tossing and turning, eyes scrunching together every so often, Fakir couldn't even guess what an emotionless prince would dream of. He knew it wasn't a nightmare, though. He knew what a nightmare looked like when it came from Mytho. Those were the only instances he would say words, and it was mostly 'Raven.' Fakir had long given up on asking for details after the prince would wake. They were always met with _I don't know_.

Therefore, Fakir wasn't an audience to a night terror. Just some oddly active dreams. And he did watch, having no way to really get back to sleep at that point. He watched the prince's movements, his back turning, legs curling, lips sighing, hair tangling. . .

It didn't take too long before his heart was beating erratically for a different reason.

Fakir frowned, unable to take his eyes off him. It was stupid how easily it was to turn him on nowadays, and predictable enough for him to draw that conclusion before he could even feel the uncomfortable stirring rise in his lower regions. If he looked any longer, if he studied the way his prince twisted and tangled himself in the sheets, he would undoubtedly become hard and he was _not_ about to go get a cold shower this early in the morning.

So he turned his head and closed his eyes, trying to block out the noise of shifting bed sheets.

But then Mytho had to go back and make noises from his throat again. First was something that sounded like an offended huff. Then it raised a pitch. Several seconds later Fakir could make out a sound starting off as a grunt and ending in a breath. Another that ended in an uplift that could almost sound like a question.

For someone who had no abilities to show emotion, Mytho was strangely expressive in his slumber.

And it was when he released something that ended through parted lips that Fakir was driven to lean forward and throw his burning face in his hands. The moment Mytho made a moan-like noise, and his roommate was left swallowing dryly and trying to ignore the sudden bubble of heat in his groin. Wonderful, just damn wonderful. And despicable, he added as a last minute amendment.

Keeping his face buried, Fakir tried taking his mind elsewhere, the thoughts in his brain in a race against the blood in his cock.

Karon, he thought. Think of Karon. Think of Karon in a tutu. Karon _naked_. Mr. Cat naked. Karon and Mr. Cat naked _together_.

. . .There. That was much better.

With a sigh, Fakir went back to leaning against the head of the bed.

It wasn't that he was particularly ashamed of it. Maybe there was _some_ of that in there (and maybe that would be an inner monologue for another day), but it was the sort of thing he would rather deal with in afternoon showers. Not during god knows when in the morning.

The mental images didn't help for long, however, because the world just loved him and wanted him to listen to the increasingly vocal moans and groans of his prince while he innocently slept. Fakir really had to wonder just what the hell he was dreaming about. It didn't sound _bad_ , by any means.

In fact, it almost sounded like -

"Nnnmuh."

Oh, goddammit.

Defeated, Fakir threw the comforter off and swung his legs over the side before pacing over to the bathroom, his intent already poking against the front of his black shorts. Quick. He just needed to make it quick and be done with it. Fakir was resolved in skipping the cold shower, and so his only other logical choice was to get rid of it manually.

Something he'd been spending a rather ridiculous amount of time doing as of late.

Once he was in the restroom and standing in front of the stool, Fakir reached in through the slit of his boxers and drew out his cock, already half erect. Not even the horrid mental imagery he subjected himself to could block out Mytho's eerily suggestive noises. But that was just the way it was. And now Fakir was left with the task of taking care of himself before he could go back and return to his duties of protecting Mytho. As long as he didn't know, then all was fine.

Running over his thoughts in his head, Fakir immediately began to stroke himself, slamming his eyes shut. This wasn't the time to get into it, so he held back from any opportunity. No hip thrusts or throated moans or allowing his other hand to touch along the other sensitive parts of his body. Deal with it and be done.

The first time he ever tried this, Fakir thought of no one in particular. A few times after that, though, he did think of Raetsel. That seemed to be the normal thing to do, as far as the awkward conversations overheard went. It was when he found he would prefer to think of a gentle quiet prince instead of a buxom figure that Fakir realized not everyone would do the same.

He pumped steadily, feeling the skin move slightly underneath and keeping up as his erection stiffened. He thought of Mytho - tucking the soft white hair from his cheeks, his pair of eyes that glowed and yet were devoid of emotion, more of those sounds echoing in the air. . .

Fakir tried to control his breaths but he couldn't stop them from shaking. He leaned to brace his free hand against the wall and ground his feet, the squeeze of his hand and memory of minutes prior bringing him close. He ran his fingers over the head with each stroke, slickening the shaft with pre.

He remembered the only time Mytho ever kissed him.

* * *

The sensation came and went before Fakir could register it. Slapping a hand to his cheek, he looked at Mytho, speechless. And when he did try to speak, the words came out in a mess of jumbles and blubbers.

"Why - how come - what was THAT for, Mytho?"

He was half expecting an _I don't know_. So it was a pleasant surprise when he actually received an answer. "It would help."

Well, maybe it was more supplementing than _I don't know_ , but it still wasn't much of a real answer. Fakir frowned, trying to ignore the burn to his cheeks and the phantom touch of the prince's lips against the side of his face. It lasted a brief moment but it was already stuck in his memory.

He finally remembered to lower his hand from his cheek. "It would help what?"

Mytho pointed to the scab below Fakir's eye, the evidence left of a scuffle between him and the neighborhood troublemaker. Fakir threw himself at the offending peer after watching him throw a rock in Mytho's direction earlier that day. It didn't land, thankfully, but it was enough to call for Fakir's protection as a knight, prompting his action.

He still didn't understand what Mytho meant with the kiss. So Fakir gave him a look as he touched along the cut. "Help this?"

"Like Raetsel," Mytho provided, and Fakir finally got it. When they returned back home that evening, the girl cleaned up his cuts and bruises before issuing a quick peck to Fakir's cheek and asking him if that made it feel better. Being much older than he was back when he first met Raetsel, Fakir was quick to deny that it did. Kisses were stupid.

But apparently Mytho took it as her kiss not working and so he wanted to make Fakir feel better instead. It was true to his nature as the heartless prince that retained his desire to protect the weak.

"Is it better?" Mytho asked innocently, repeating the words he heard Raetsel give earlier.

Looking away, Fakir rubbed at the spot, fingers lingering. ". . .Yeah. I guess."

* * *

It was years ago but Fakir never forgot the feeling. The sensation of Mytho's lips to his skin, wanting to feel it on _more_ than just his cheek, he was always left to imagine it as he jerked off on nights like this.

He wanted to feel it everywhere. He could, if he thought about it hard enough. He wanted to be kissed on his lips, on his chin, ears, neck, other places. And Fakir would kiss in return.

Oh yes he would. He would kiss him everywhere.

Fakir swallowed a groan as he heard the wet sounds from below. Faster and faster his hand went, almost desperate to just bring him there already and take him back down to the reality that he'll never touch his prince like this.

But while he was still trapped, he let his mind soar.

He could see himself turning his head and returning Mytho's kiss instead of sitting there stunned. He could see himself pressing against him, running his hands through that white hair, opening his mouth to taste his prince. And if he tried hard enough, he could see his prince returning the affections. If he could just imagine the feel of _his_ hands over him, touching him and grasping the front of his shirt as he would do sometimes, and maybe say his name once or twice as he'd let Fakir crawl closer until their lower halves met and hear the prince's breath hitch as he ground his hard cock against his and feel Mytho's suddenly come to life –

"Fuck," Fakir grunted. He leaned his head forward and let the imagery consume his mind, refusing to open his eyes. It would have been far too good to be true but he couldn't resist it. He allowed it to bring him closer, and when he finally came, he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood to save himself from releasing any noises. Letting himself spill, Fakir inhaled sharply before slowly drawing it out on a shaking breath. For just those few seconds he felt like curling in on himself and could have sworn that his fantasy was really there with him and it was enough that he could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue before it ended and he remembered he was alone in the room. He breathed deeply for a bit.

. . .And then that was that.

Fakir quickly went back to business and wiped off the lingering cum both from his cock and right hand, washing at the sink afterward and making sure to use soap. He didn't bother looking at himself in the mirror. He already knew his face would be red.

Turning the light off, Fakir went back into the bedroom. Now that he'd had some relief, his roommate's unconscious stirrings shouldn't bother him as much. Still enough to capture his attention with every moment, but not enough that he'd need to take care of himself again.

He was surprised to find that Mytho was already awake when he returned, however. And already half-way out of bed.

"Fakir?"

He stopped in his place, his imagination already taking him to the explanation that he might have actually woken Mytho up with his activities. He looked away. "What is it?"

Mytho blinked as he always did, his eyes questioning but otherwise empty. Fakir turned back in time to see him pointing to the unmade bed across the room. "You weren't. . .there." He turned to Fakir, his words simply stating and nothing more. "When I looked, I couldn't see you, Fakir. I couldn't see anything."

Immediately Fakir felt a swell of guilt rise in his chest, ignoring the fact that usually this sort of situation would be backwards and _he_ would be the one expressing discomfort at not knowing where Mytho was. Sorry, he thought wryly to himself, the knight had to leave his post just so he could go beat off to thoughts of his prince making those damn erotic noises. It might have solved his little problem, but it wasn't worth it if Mytho woke up confused and disrupted enough to bring it to Fakir's attention.

So he drew himself over to Mytho's bedside, his instinctive protectiveness showing through as his knight. "I'm here now," he said. He placed a hand over the head of white hair and another on his shoulder, a comforting position the both of them were familiar with. "There's no need to worry about anything else."

"Okay."

But going by the way Mytho continued to keep his eyes to his, he wasn't taking the advice. Fakir frowned at him. Usually the prince would relax against him and remain until he fell asleep – that was what Fakir was expecting, but instead he found golden eyes fixated on his.

After a few minutes he asked, "What?"

Mytho sat there silently before reaching up and gently touching a finger to the cut right below Fakir's lower lip - incriminating evidence of what he had done in the bathroom just before. He had already forgotten about biting his lip so hard, and the unexpected caress made him automatically flinch his head away.

"It hurts," Mytho stated, voice light and airy.

"It's fine," Fakir replied, hating that his face was already becoming red again. "I told you not to worry about any - "

He couldn't finish his sentence because Mytho shifted forward in his seat and kissed the cut, his lips dangerously close and dangerously soft. Once again Fakir froze and it took everything he had to not fall off the side of the bed.

Part of him demanded that he push Mytho away by the shoulders and yell at him. Hold him by the hair and present him to a mirror while he went on another tangent about doing useless things. And then push him down to the bed and demand he sleep before going back to his own to forget about the whole thing.

But at night Fakir was done saying cruel words and pushing with threats. So he sat there, still as a brick, and let Mytho do as he pleased, which turned out to be retreating after a mere second. He looked at the cut, and then up to Fakir.

"Is it better?"

Fakir was speechless, mouth moving but no words coming out. In reality, the answer was no, and he should have told him such. There was still a cut on his bottom lip, and there was still no other situation the prince would ever give this sort of attention to him in. Of course it wasn't better.

Instead of voicing it, though, Fakir looked away. He reached up and traced along the cut, not feeling the injury, but rather the phantom touch that was only there a moment ago. All Mytho ever wanted to do was protect those that were weak, and while it was Fakir's duty to be his knight. . .sometimes he wanted to just let the prince protect him in turn, if only for a little while.

". . .Yeah. I guess."


End file.
